Akshran studied the system of magic in Elpium.In Elpium, magic is tied to one's emotions and inner self, manifested as 'Resonance'—a unique force that defines a mage's abilities and potential.

"Resonance, huh," he thought, scanning the pages of the book filled with magical secrets.

"Each person has a magic according to the ability they resonate with the most." A chuckle escaped him. "Mine is blood—quite fitting, I'd say."

"Resonance is a powerful force found in nature. Once a mage awakens their resonance, they gain a sigil on their right arm. The sigil glows during emotional turmoil, connecting to the mage on an emotional level..." His voice trailed off, boredom creeping in as he read the monotonous text.

Then, one line caught his eye. "Resonances are sentient beings; they can feel, experience, and express emotions to their mage in various ways." Akshran's gaze fixated on the word "sentient," as if it might spring to life.

"This just keeps getting more interesting," he murmured, curiosity piqued.

"Resonances evolve if the mage trains hard enough. They progress as the mage grows."

"Where is the section to awaken your Resonance?" he muttered, flipping through the index until he found the relevant section.

"First, I need to meditate, then call out my resonance's name? How am I supposed to know that?" He huffed in frustration, but then a note beneath the writing caught his eye.

To know your resonance's name, sit in a lotus position and imagine what you think your resonance is like. The name will come to you. But remember, keep it to yourself. Never speak it aloud unless you remember "it."

"What's with the placeholders? Is it to appear more mysterious?" he questioned, rolling his eyes.

"Anyway, let me get that true name real quick," he decided, a sense of determination settling over him.

Akshran settled onto the floor, crossing his legs and closing his eyes. He inhaled deeply, focusing on the pulse of his blood, the very essence that resonated with him. In that stillness, he prepared to uncover the identity of his magic.

Akshran let the heavy silence of his room settle around him as he crossed his legs on the bed, slipping into a trance-like state. With practiced ease, he conjured the image of his resonance—a rich, sanguine river under a colorless sky, winding through a hazy twilight. It was an image he had grown accustomed to, a vision he found both reassuring and empowering. This river of blood, flowing calm and thick, felt like a part of himself, its rhythmic pulse echoing in his chest, powerful and familiar.

But as he sank deeper, something in the air changed—a shift, subtle but insidious, like a stain seeping across cloth. A cold weight settled over him, and he felt his heartbeat stutter, his pulse struggling against the thickening tension. The river, once warm and rich, began to darken. The sanguine glow faded into an ugly shade of blackened red, and he sensed something foul spreading through it. A strange, tar-like viscosity overtook the river, and it moved slower, thickening, as though weighed down by something unseen.

He tried to focus, to steady the vision, but the scene before him continued to twist. The familiar blood-red river became unrecognizable, its liquid surface turning sticky and sluggish, congealing into something unnatural. His vision blurred at the edges, a creeping darkness closing in, shaping into a heavy shadow that loomed like a suffocating presence. His stomach twisted in knots, a cold sweat prickling at the nape of his neck as the air thickened with an oppressive weight. He felt as though he were being watched, a cold gaze pressing down from beyond the void—ancient and impersonal, as if he were a mere intruder in its domain.

Then, from the depths of the river, a whisper rose—broken, distant, as if from a mouth submerged deep in the darkness. "S...Saa…" The syllable was barely a sound, slipping through his mind like a shard of ice, too faint to grasp but sharp enough to leave a chill. He strained to make sense of it, but it slipped away, leaving only a vague, unsettling echo that seemed to burrow into his thoughts. "Not now. Just when I thought I had a handle on this."

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The darkness around him grew deeper, its weight pressing down, almost suffocating. The river was no longer a river, but a churning, black morass, swirling with something alive beneath the surface. Shadows writhed within it, twisting and shifting, as though something grotesque were clawing its way up from beneath. Akshran felt his stomach turn as the once-still waters began to ripple, disturbed by unseen movements. He glimpsed something just beneath the surface—a formless shape, pressing upward, distorting the black sludge, stretching it like a thin membrane ready to burst. "Looks like my resonance is having a bad hair day. I should have gone with a sunny yellow."

Another fragment of sound broke the silence, rasping and hollow: "...vor…" The syllable slithered into his thoughts, sharp and sickly, each broken sound a splinter digging deeper into his mind. His pulse quickened, his breaths shallow and ragged, but he couldn't tear himself away. The name was pulling at him, and he knew he was losing his hold on his own thoughts, sinking further into the murky depths of this cursed vision. "I can't shake the feeling that this is only the beginning."

The ground beneath him shifted, and he staggered, his footing lost. He was no longer sitting on his bed, no longer even sure of his body; he was suspended in this terrible dark landscape, bound by some unseen force that pulsed with each tremor of his racing heart. The shadows swelled around him, pressing closer, writhing and shifting, forming grotesque shapes that loomed, silent and cold, as if waiting to consume him. "This wasn't the revelation I sought; it felt more like a curse."

The whisper returned, coiling through the silence, its tone low and mocking: "...ith…" It slashed through his mind like a cold blade, the syllable disjointed and wrong, but more terrifying was the familiarity that crawled through it, as if this voice had known him long before he had known himself.

The shapes beneath the river surged violently, pressing upward, creating bulging, bloated mounds on the blackened surface. Faces—twisted, horrific parodies of human expression—pressed against the sludge, their mouths open in silent screams, their eyes hollow and endless. The faces were all different, yet somehow, grotesquely, they all felt like him, like mirrors twisted by some awful magic, reflecting pieces of his soul that he'd never meant to see. "Why does everything have to be so complicated?"

Just as he felt himself slipping further, being pulled toward these terrifying reflections, a shadow rose from the depths—a towering shape, monstrous and malformed, spilling forth with an unnatural fluidity, as though it were woven from the river's own foul sludge. It had no defined form, but its presence was suffocating, a cold sentience that filled him with dread beyond reason. "I can't let myself be consumed by this."

The voice, lower now, more insistent, murmured again, each word reverberating through the ground, through his bones: "That which you have called… will answer in time…" The words slithered around him, wrapping him in a thick, stifling embrace, as though the darkness itself was speaking, pushing into his mind, leaving a sickness in his gut and a strange, undeniable pull in his chest. "

Just as he felt himself on the brink of being consumed by the black mass, a laugh echoed through the silence—a piercing, mocking sound that stabbed through the void. It was sharp and biting, filled with a cruelty that felt familiar, intimate. This was no laughter from any human throat; it was alien, otherworldly, laced with a malice that seemed to know him better than he knew himself. The sound wrapped around him, filling his thoughts, drowning out all else, twisting his mind with an invasive presence that felt as if it had been waiting for him. "Is this the best my resonance can do? I was expecting more of a motivational speech."

Akshran gasped, trying to fight back, but the darkness was overwhelming, his limbs numb, his mind fogged. Just as the laughter reached its peak, his vision shattered, and he felt himself being wrenched back, tumbling through a cold, empty void. "How did I end up here? Is this what they meant by self-discovery?"

He jolted awake, gasping for air, his heart hammering against his ribs, his skin clammy with a sheen of sweat. His hands shook as he raised them, his mind reeling, his thoughts a chaotic mess. He could still feel the presence, that horrible, mocking laughter echoing faintly in his mind, a dark promise lingering in the back of his thoughts.

Despite the terror that clawed at him, he felt something else—a strange, twisted thrill, a thrill that pulsed alongside his fear like a new heartbeat, the echo of something vast and ancient that had taken notice of him, and was waiting. "I should be afraid, but there's something exhilarating about it."

Akshran then coughed blood, his gaze fixated on a sigil forming on his left hand, signaling that he had awakened his resonance. He felt a surge of happiness until he realized the sigil was on his left hand—sigils only formed on the right hand!

The design, however, was impressive. It featured four lines intertwining forming a large tree; one dark line "took" a significant portion from the other black-grey line turning it grey, while a third line, a bright white, appeared to be the strongest, positioned at the center of the group. Lastly, an all-encompassing line encircled the others, seeming to give something back to the grey line that the dark line had "stolen."